


Supermarket Flowers

by litmilkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (nothing too heavy I promise just wanted to put it out there), Cancer, Death, Funeral Scene, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Non Graphic Vomiting, Where do I begin, ableist slurs, this is going to be a wild ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-10-18 16:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litmilkovich/pseuds/litmilkovich
Summary: Smoking was commonplace on the South Side. A shitty habit, but normal. Until it bites you in the ass.-Or the fic no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for a minute now and I was waiting until it was completed to post it, but I couldn't wait. So, here it is. I'll be the first to admit this fic will get heavy and be sad more often than not, and this by no means is meant to be disrespectful to those who have suffered or have loved ones who suffered from this awful disease.

Ian had no room to talk about how shitty smoking was for your lungs. He smoked regularly, although he wasn't a pack-a-day kind of guy; just a few with a drink or before bed, or a shared one with Mickey after sex. Shit hit the fan and things fell apart when Mickey started having trouble with his breathing. It was simple enough, just shortness of breath when he'd go up and down the stairs, needing a few more breathers than usual during sex, fits of coughing when he went up and down the stares sometimes; nothing he or Ian freaked out about.

Until Mickey passed out when he went to check out the Rub-n-Tug, thoroughly scaring the living shit out of Ian when he was on the scene when the ambulance was called.

"Fuck," he breathed, unsure what the fuck else there was to even say. He didn't know what the fuck to do. Well— he _knew_ what to do, but doing it was another story when his muscles suddenly felt like led. The second EMT, Carol, yelled at Ian to get him out of his reverie.

"Gallagher! Snap out of it, we need oxygen," she barked and hovered over Mickey. "Sir, can you hear me?" She asked calmly and placed her index finger and thumb on his jugular.

"Can hear just fuckin' — _fine_ ," he wheezed and coughed. "I can't— fucking _breathe_ ," the last sentence wasn't said with any Milkovich flare, it wasn't even backtalk, it was a scared plea for help.

Ian auto piloted with an oxygen mask as Mickey was placed on a stretcher by Carol and the third EMT.

Ian's throat tightened as Mickey's face was starting to turn red from lack of oxygen, gasping for air as the mask was placed over his nose and mouth; air beginning to flow a little more.

"Just my—," he paused to gulp down some air, "fucking luck," he coughed, feeling a certain kind of guilt wash over him at the look on Ian's face.

"Just breathe, okay? Look at me, Mickey," he said as they brought him into the ambulance. "You're doing great," he said shakily, the doors slamming behind them before Carol sprung back into the drivers seat. "In through your nose, out through your mouth," he instructed and did it along with him.

It was always jarring to see Mickey scared or vulnerable, especially when he was always so sure of himself and carried confidence in most things he did. Right now, he looked helpless; and that was fucking terrifying. "Fuck," he wheezed and clasped his hand over Ian's that was holding the mask over his face. His eyes locked with Ian's, uncertainty swimming in his gaze.

Needless to say, it was a long ride to the hospital.

-

He didn't want to let go of Mickey's hand, was the thing, and it was pulled from his grasp when the stretcher was wheeled out of the ambulance. Mickey gave Ian's hand a soft, reassuring squeeze. It made his eyes sting.

A hand on his chest stopped him from following Mickey into the ER, met with the eyes of the two other EMT's. He eyed them for a moment, eyebrows drawn together and upward in a silent, "please get the fuck out of my way." They had their wordless conversation and let Ian through. They'd cover for him.

He felt as if things happened in slow motion after that. Mickey was admitted since he'd become stable on the ride over.

He stood outside his room, eyes lingering on the slightly ajar door. He inhaled, exhaled; pushed the door open. He was met with the sight of Mickey, his Mickey; strong, hard headed, shit talking, South Side punk, looking fragile and helpless. He was awake, eyes hooded and trained on Ian. "Hey," he whispered hoarsely. For the first time in Ian's life, he didn't have the right words to make it okay.

"Hey," he replied, making his way to sit beside the bed in the uncomfortable hospital chair. "What the fuck, Mick?" He breathed and felt his eyes mist over before reaching for Mickey's hand. "You scared the shit out of me, asshole."

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Mickey murmured dryly.

"Did they say what happened?" He asked, looking at Mickey's hand in his own as he traced small circles with his thumb. He studied the profane knuckle tattoos, the way they've faded and become so familiar to him. It was an oddly comforting sight, seeing something that grounded him; even if it was signing as trivial as the F-U-C-K tattoo.

"They don't know, so they poked me a shit ton of times, asked a bunch of stupid questions, and made me hack up a fuck ton of shit into a cup," he coughed and Ian winced. "And here we are," he finished wits a labored breath.

"Are y'okay?" Ian asked softly after a few seconds of silence. He couldn't bring himself to look at Mickey's face, so he kept staring at his hand in his. His thumb absently traced more patterns on the side, while his other hand gently pet the skin over his knuckles.

"I mean, I'm here, aren't I?" He said lightheartedly. Ian winced, soon feeling Mickey's other hand reach over to touch his cheek. "Hey," he whispered, "look at me."

He reluctantly met Mickey's gaze. He took in the look of him, slightly paler than normal and overall exhausted looking. His eyes brimmed with tears at the sight and he felt silly all of the sudden.

"Don't turn into a bitch on me, c'mon," Mickey laughed dryly and ignored the mistiness in his own eyes. He pat Ian's cheek gently before letting his hand rest at his side again.

"I'm not a bitch," he laughed softly and let his eyes fall onto their joined hands again. "Listen, I um— I called Svet. She hasn't told Yev yet, but I thought she should know," he murmured and felt Mickey's hand tense.

"C'mon, man, she doesn't have to know my business," he groaned and laid his head back.

"She does. Your health is important, she's the mother of our kid; she's gotta keep up to date with this shit," he explained firmly but kept his voice soft.

Surprisingly, Mickey didn't protest as much as he thought he would. Though Ian had told her she didn't need to leave home on her day off, he had expected her to anyways, because that was just Svetlana.

A small knock on the door frame about an hour later brought them out of their little bubble of soft touches and even softer words. Svetlana looked at them knowingly with a light smile playing on her lips. "Are you alright?" She asked and passed through the threshold.

Mickey only scoffed, eyes gesturing to the various tubes and machines around him. "Sustained," he deadpanned. Svetlana exhaled a short laugh, sitting on the chair beside Ian.

"And you? I hear you were one of the first responders," she directs to Ian, placing her hand on his shoulder.

Ian and Svetlana had their differences through the years, especially when Ian had his first major manic episode and took Yevgeny. Over time, they'd grown back to share a fondness for one another, even more so soothed by Ian choosing to medicate. She welcomed him in as a coparent and didn't even flinch when Yevgeny started calling him dad.

"Yeah, just— shithead scared the fuck out of me," he murmured and cocked his head in Mickey's direction; who scoffed indignantly.

"Sitting right here," he grumbled to the two of them.

Svetlana shot him a look, the back of her hand slapping against his knee in faux distaste. "You scare the shit out of me too, Mikhailo," she murmured and sat back. "One day I take off from Alibi and you end up in hospital," she shook her head, but there's concern written all over her face. They weren't married anymore, Ian could attest to the fact that Svet was more than happy to be in her little thrupple with Kev and Vee; but that didn't change the fact she still cared deeply for Mickey. He was the father of her child, after all. Biologically, at least. Svetlana made it a point to make sure Ian knew Yevgeny was his as well as hers.

"You two are overreacting," Mickey dismissed. "They'll dope me up and send me home, I can get back to work and get you two mother hens off my case," he murmured, cut off but a violent coughing fit. It was— intense, to say the least. He gasped short breaths and wheezed when the coughing finally came to a halt.

"Overreacting, huh?" Ian scoffed after Mickey had settled down, thoroughly ruffling Ian's feathers, as if he wasn't tense enough.

"You are sick, no more stubbornness," Svetlana tutted and eyed him seriously.

"Look," Mickey cleared his throat and sat up a little bit. He eyed Ian, feeling a little guilty he's the reason for his agitation. "It's probably just a bug, okay? They took a shit ton of tests, you'll see for yourself, it's nothing," he dismissed and Ian pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Mick, you can't just—," he was cut off by Mickey's doctor lightly rapping on the door.

A lean, middle aged man entered the room. Mickey eyed him suspiciously. He never really trusted doctors. "Mister Milkovich, how are you?"

"I'm in a stiff hospital bed with my ex wife and boyfriend up my ass, so I've been better," Mickey deadpanned and snickered at the look of confusion that briefly flickered over the mans face.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he murmured and extended his hand to Mickey. "I'm Doctor Steinfeld, we'll be getting to know one another a bit today," he murmured through a mildly awkward handshake with his patient.

"What do you mean?" Ian asked before Mickey could, earning a _look_ , but Ian deflected it with one of his own.

"We found some abnormalities in your sputum, and since you're a smoker; we'd like to do a CT scan," he explained in a light but serious tone.

"The fuck is that?" Mickey blurted before Ian or Svetlana could get a word in.

"Sputum is the mucus sample we took when you were first brought in, and a CT scan is just a way we can get a clearer picture of your lungs and what may or may not be going on," he explained.

Ian felt an uneasy flip in his stomach at the doctors words. "Abnormalities that warrant a CT scan?" He asked softly, feeling a little smaller than before.

"It's simply routine, given the circumstances and samples collected we've determined a further look at Mikhailo's—,"

"Mickey," he interrupted.

Doctor Steinfeld smiled apologetically, "—Mickey's lungs," he amended, "would be necessary."

Svetlana looked a little uneasy as well, "how long does he stay here?"

The doctor shrugged, "it all depends on what we do or don't find," he said and gestured to the nurse who had been idly standing behind him. "This is Marie, she'll be prepping you for your scan, we'll be waiting," he said in a light tone and left Marie to her work.

Ian and Svetlana shared a look of confusion and worry, and Mickey looked similarly uneasy.

-

The CT scan was more intimidating looking than it was while you were in it, Mickey found out. They strapped him down loosely in order to have him he still for a clearer picture, and he protested until the last minute that this was all highly unnecessary.

He shut up when Ian and Svetlana gave him twin death glares. He was whipped two times over.

He went with it, playing it cool though his mind began to race. This _was_ unnecessary, right? He was fine. Under the weather, sure, but a CT scan? It was obviously overkill. He was just grateful for Ian's health insurance, because being a pimp didn't exactly come with insurance benefits.

It took too fucking long, but it was over and Mickey sat up and rolled his shoulders. "Started to get fuckin' claustrophobic," he groused when a nurse stepped in to help him out of the contraption. He rolled his eyes and got up on his own, begrudgingly making his way back to his room where Ian and Svetlana chatted softly to one another.

They both sat up straighter when he strolled in with Marie. She had an unreadable look on her face that didn't exactly help their nerves.

"Doctor Steinfeld will be in with you in a moment," she said curtly and exited politely.

Ian eyed his boyfriend, "you okay?" He asked softly. "Quiet," he said gently and gave Svetlana a nervous look.

"Fucks sake, Ian," Mickey groaned. "I'm _fine_ , It was fucking overkill, they'll come in and tell me to eat more fruit or some shit and we can go home," he grunted and looked to Svetlana. "Who's getting Yev from school?" He said conversationally, changing the subject.

Svetlana perked up a little, "Vee said she could get him with the girls, he'll want to see you when he finds out what happened."

Mickey sighed, "he doesn't gotta know, Svet. We'll be outta here before he can realize I'm gone," he dismissed.

Ian was about to speak when a firm knock sounded on the slightly ajar door, Doctor Steinfeld appeared, looking rather grim.

"Hope I haven't interrupted," he apologized politely. "We have some preliminary results we'd like to share, because we've discovered some alarming abnormalities with Mickey's lungs," he began, tone all professional.

Ian visibly tensed, looking like he waned to say something but couldn't find the words.

Svetlana spoke up, "alarming?" Her voice was small, scared. Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Like I said, the results are preliminary but reliable enough to warrant further testing. We'd like to take a tissue biopsy is his lungs to be one hundred percent sure," he continued and eyed his patient as well as his family.

"Well, are you gonna fucking tell us what you found?" Ian snapped. He clearly wasn't in the mood for all this alluding garbage, Mickey could concur, he wanted to know what was going on.

Mickey couldn't find it in himself to even give Ian a look, because he felt the same. Svetlana was steeled, eyes hardened and narrowing on Doctor Steinfeld.

The doctor looked like he understood Ian's anger and let it roll off of him. "As I previously stated, we'll make an official diagnoses after a tissue biopsy; but there _is_ evidence of cancer," he explained gently.

Mickey felt fiery chills erupt over his shoulders and race down his back, over his arms. He could faintly hear Ian gasp and Svetlana let out a horrified sound. They were next to him, but they sounded far away; as if he was under water and they were on the surface.

_Cancer?_ He knew smoking was shitty for your lungs, but it never really dawned on him he'd suffer any consequences. He'd been exposed to second hand smoke since he was a baby, and been smoking cigarettes since he was eleven. It was normal, there wasn't really anyone on the South Side that didn't smoke _something_. It was always casual, a stress reliever, _normal_. Never in his life he thought the habit would cause more than a few coughing fits over the years, maybe a few of his taste buds not working right anymore, never _this_.

He was brought out of his reverie, his name being called out.

"Mickey? Mikhailo, can you hear me?" Doctor Steinfeld said in a louder tone than before.

"Shit—," he breathed out, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Yeah, I can hear you," he said with only a slight waver in his tone.

Doctor Steinfeld nodded, "as I've said, these results are reliable; but we'd still like to do a tissue sample to get a closer look. As far as the stage, from what we can see, it looks as if we're in late stage one, which is still highly treatable," he continued. "However, treatment would preferably need to start as soon as possible. We'd like to do the biopsy soon and keep you overnight," he explained; Ian and Svetlana listening with rapt attention.

"I know this is a lot of information all at once, Mickey," the doctor said sympathetically, "but as I've said, treatment starting as soon as possible is the best option. Feel free to talk with your family first, we can leave you to it and come back when you're ready; just push your alert button," he said gently before nodding to Marie to make their exit.

The door shut with a prominent _click_ before he was left alone with Ian and Svet.

"Mick," Ian began, his eyes slowly brimming with tears and spilling over into his soft freckled cheeks. Mickey hated that he was the reason Ian was crying. He hated himself even more when he realized his eyes began to sting too.

"Don't," the pitch of Mickey's voice fluctuated, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat; his hands furiously wiping at his eyes. He felt like a pussy for being such a bitch about this, because this was his fault. He knew smoking was shitty for his health and still did it anyway. He felt selfish. He has a _kid_ , for fucks sake. And Ian, _fuck_ , Ian. This wasn't fair to his family.

"Mickey, please look at me," Ian begged, his hands grappling for Mickey's. "Mick," he repeated, voice flooded with emotion. " _Look_ at me."

He did, and it was a bad decision. Ian's brow was furrowed, eyes red and wet. "Ian," was all he could manage to say before his face crumpled, and he hated himself for it. He was _scared_ , fucking petrified because this was real life shit. He said it was still treatable. _Treatable_. He hung on that word, listening to it repeat itself over again in his head. He shouldn't be breaking down like this, he's been through worse. Much worse. Cancer was something he never saw coming, though, it caught him off guard. And that was the shit that scared him the most.

"Hey, _hey_ ," Ian murmured and moved to sit beside Mickey on the bed, his hands framing his face while his thumbs swiped the wetness away from under his eyes. Mickey leaned into the touch to keep him grounded. "It's gonna be okay, c'mere," he whispered hoarsely and pulled him close, arms wrapping around his middle while Mickey enclosed his arms around Ian's neck; face pressed to the skin there.

"S'gonna be alright," Ian soothed, but Mickey knew just as well as Mickey did that there was no way to know. None of them had a damn clue. _Treatable_. Mickey gasped in an effort to keep his emotions at bay into Ian's neck that he couldn't hold back. He'd let his walls down for Ian a handful of times, now being one of the times where he stripped down all his barriers. "I know, I know," Ian breathed into Mickey's hair, but it landed on deaf ears.

Svetlana stood, placing her hand on Mickey's shoulder gently, squeezing periodically while using the back of her other hand to wipe her own cheeks. She was the first to break the sounds of gentle words and the soft sounds of crying, "you are getting treatment, understand?" Her tone lacked any real venom or authority, it was more of a plea than a command.

He knew what he had to do, and he was scared shitless.

-

Leaving Mickey at the hospital was the worst feeling Ian could have ever imagined. He wanted to be there and wait out Mickey's biopsy procedure, but Svetlana reminded him about Yevgeny. _Yevgeny_. They had to tell him, and they had no idea how.

He'd be home from school by now, playing with Amy and Gemma at the Fisher home while Kev took over the Alibi and Vee took off early from the bar to watch the kids.

The ride on the El from the hospital was quiet. People kept to themselves and the only sound was the rattling of the train car and a few people chatting on their phones. It didn't feel like eight in the evening, but the darkness that fell over the South Side evidently told otherwise.

Svetlana grabbed Ian's hand with both of hers, head leaned on his shoulder, "how do we tell Yevgeny?" She asked softly, eyes downcast at the dingy floor as they neared their stop.

"Fuck if I know," he said mournfully.

-

"Mom!" Yevgeny squealed when the front door rattled and squeaked open. He ran into her open arms as she squatted to his height, happily welcoming her back home.

" _Sweetheart_ ," she whispered in Russian, breathing in the familiar scent of her son. Ian followed in tow, a small headache blooming near his temples. He wasn't looking forward to delivering this news to his son.

"Dad," Yevgeny grinned wide, detaching from his mother and jumping up into Ian's outstretched arms.

"Hey, little man," he breathed and held him close, both arms wrapped around his middle. He soon wriggled out of his fathers iron grip, trotting back over to help put away the legos he'd been playing with before bedtime.

"I thought momma was gonna get me from school today, we're learning about butterflies and Mrs. Day said we're gonna be getting real life caterpillars soon! We're gonna watch them turn into butterflies, it's gonna be so cool!" He babbled on and Ian couldn't help but smile. Yevgeny was an amazing little boy, through and through. He was so smart at only seven, and definitely too talkative for his own good. Most likely the product of being raised by Milkoviches and Gallagher's, but such as life.

Svetlana hummed in interest, obviously not too concerned about the insects Yevgeny was so enthusiastic about.

Yev noticed Mickey's absence when he finished helping the girls put away toys. "Why isn't daddy here, too?" He questioned, his high level energy dissipating after the initial excitement of seeing two of his parents again. Usually his dad's only came over here to pick him up or visit with Kev, Vee, and Svetlana.

Ian lingered closer and ruffled Yevgeny's hair, "go brush your teeth and get your PJ's on, 'kay?" He avoided answering Yev's question, glancing to Svetlana nervously. She shared the same uncertainty.

Yevgeny raised an eyebrow, shrugging to himself before waving and saying a soft goodnight to Vee and the girls.

Clueless.

-

"Can we go to the zoo this weekend?" Yevgeny yawned when Ian and Svetlana walked him to his bedroom. It was Ian and Mickey's weekend with Yev, and they usually went out and did something fun. Yevgeny's favorite thing was the zoo, despite it being what they did nearly every time.

"Sure, buddy," Ian murmured and sat next to him on the bed, Svetlana sitting opposite of him; eyes shifting from him to her son.

Yev glanced back and forth from his mother and his dad, "you guys are acting weird," he stated and snuggled under his super hero blanket.

"We have to tell you something, baby," Svetlana supplied when the silence stretched on too long. "You are big boy, yes? You can be a big boy when we tell you something sad?" She said softly and carded her fingers through his soft dirty blonde hair.

"Yeah, I'm a big boy," he confirmed with a small nod.

"Our big boy," Ian said and smiled when Yevgeny beamed.

"Your daddy, sweetheart," she began and Ian could only steel himself when he saw the tears swim in her eyes. He knew more than anyone Svetlana rarely cried, never wore her heart on her sleeve. "Your daddy is sick," she murmured and blinked away the wetness that had since accumulated in her eyes.

"Sick?" Yevgeny asked, eyebrows furrowing. "Then he gets medicine," he said, like it was so simple. "And then we give him soup and read to him, that's what you do when I'm not feeling good."

Ian put a hand over his mouth for a moment to catch his breath. Yev was such an amazing kid, so sweet, caring, _innocent_. He inhaled deeply before caressing his sons cheek, "Yev, it's not that kind of sick," he didn't know how to explain this to a seven year old. He didn't want to.

"There's different kinds of sick?" He asked quizzically. "How's that?" He rose an eyebrow, so similar to his fathers that Ian felt the corners of his lips turn upwards.

"Sometimes it's like when you get a tummy ache and daddy and I give you soup and let you stay home from school," he did his best to explain. "Other times, it's a little more serious."

Yevgeny's small smile started to dissipate.

"See.. daddy can't just take medicine once and rest, he's got the more serious kind of sick," his voice wavered and he cursed to himself.

"Daddy has to be in hospital for this kind of sick, yes? He needs doctors to help him," Svetlana took over for a moment, much to Ian's gratitude.

"What's wrong with him?" Yevgeny's voice was small, afraid. He clearly didn't want his daddy to be sick, he didn't want any of his parents sick.

"His lungs, baby," Svetlana took a shuddering breath. "Daddy's lungs aren't working how they are supposed to— you see he smokes all the time? His lungs don't like that," Ian saw the tears that shed since blinked away fall down her cheeks in small rivulets.

"Why're you crying, momma?" He asked so, so carefully.

"Yev," Ian began and gently pushed the dirty blonde wisps of hair from Yevgeny's eyes. "Daddy has cancer," his voice wasn't as strong as he'd hoped; but Svetlana most likely wouldn't be able to say it. "In his lungs, honey," he murmured and watched as realization washed over his son's face.

"Is he.. is he gonna die?" Yevgeny's eyes quickly filled with tears and spilled over onto his blotchy cheeks. "I don't want daddy to die," he whimpered and looked up at Ian with so much fear he couldn't help but surge forward and capture his son in his arms.

" _No_ , no of course not," he gently pet Yevgeny's hair as Svetlana wrapped around the two of them. Yev was steadily weeping into Ian's chest, little hands curling into his t-shirt.

"But— but people die from cancer," he sniffled and wiped his face against Ian's shirt. "My friends grandpa died from cancer," he peeped from the casing of his parents arms.

"Does not always happen," Svetlana cleared her throat and pressed her lips to her son's head. "He's going to be okay, baby," she looked to Ian for reassurance.

"Momma always knows best, right? We wouldn't lie to you, Yev. He's gonna be alright," Ian nodded and it seemed to console Yevgeny at least a little.

"Sleep now, baby. You stay home from school tomorrow to see daddy," Svetlana murmured into his hair and gently detached herself from them.

Ian did the same and wiped his son's cheeks, who blinked up at him. "Love you, dad," he yawned and hugged his teddy bear close. "Love you, momma," he slurred sleepily before drifting off.

-

Mickey decidedly hated hospitals. He'd never really been on one for this long, but it was already a pain in the ass. He was moved to the cancer ward, the motherfucking _cancer ward,_ forfucks sake. He still hadn't fully accepted it, not yet. Not when Ian wasn't here to tell him everything would be fine. He knew, deep down, nothing was fine. Nothing was going to be fine for a while.

He had an okay set up, he supposed. The room was tiny, but he didn't have to share it with anyone yet. He internally groaned when he realized he'd eventually have to deal with another poor bastard rooming next to him eventually, but he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

Ian shot him a text, letting him know Yevgeny was going to be with them. He cringed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn't want his kid seeing him like this, all vulnerable and decrepit; various tubes connected to his arms with dressings around his side where the incision from the biopsy was.

A small knock on the doorframe alerted him of their presence, Ian coming in with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Svetlana in tow with a very small, shy looking Yevgeny holding her hand.

"Hey, buddy," Mickey murmured and sat up a little bit, suppressing a wince. The incision from his biopsy still tender. The results were fairly conclusive. Positive, early stage two. So, there's that.

"Hi," Yevgeny murmured and looked at his shoes. He looked antsy as he Svetlana gently removed her hand from his, "is okay, baby," she reassured him.

That seemed to be it for Yev, because he crept closer to Mickey until the resolve wore off and he leapt to latch on to his fathers neck with his face pressed in the curve of his shoulder.

Mickey let out a surprised sound, "hey, easy there, little man," he said with little bite. His arms enclosed around Yevgeny's back, soothing him when he felt wetness seep through the flimsy gown.

"I love you, daddy," he snuffled and hiccuped.

Mickey saw Svetlana reach for Ian's hand in the background. "I love you too, Yevvy, don't cry," he shushed gently and carded his fingers though Yevgeny's dirty blonde hair. "I'm right here, not goin' anywhere anytime soon, okay?" He said into the crown of his son's head.

"You're gonna take medicine, right?" Yevgeny asked, voice small and muffled in Mickey's shoulder.

He nodded, "yeah, buddy, I'll take medicine," he murmured and that seemed to acquiescence Yev.

He heard Ian clear his throat while Mickey swallowed around the lump in his. He didn't know how to go about this. His son was too young to have a parent with cancer, cancer that was ultimately his fault. Damn, Mickey felt like such a piece of shit.

Yev pulled away reluctantly, wiping at his cheeks that turned a red blotchy color. He hesitantly went to sit between Ian and Svetlana, resting his head on Ian's bicep while his mother took his hand.

"You want to get daddy a snack, _myshka_?" She said hopefully and ruffled his hair when he gave a reluctant nod.

After they left, Ian made quick work of sitting on the bed beside Mickey, taking his hand in his. "Any news from the biopsy?" He murmured and gently massaged his palm.

"Yeah, uh," he couldn't meet Ian's eyes, watching the freckled fingers release the tension in his palm. "It's official, yanno," he breathed and looked at the ceiling to keep his emotions at bay. He felt like bitch for crying so much. "The whole," he shrugged and gave a mournful chuckle. "Cancer thing, came up positive," he breathed and finally met Ian's gaze.

"Are you— are you okay? I mean, I know you're not _okay_ , but I mean, okay as in.. how are you doing?" He fumbled over his words and Mickey felt his love for Ian double in that moment.

"Not really, no," he murmured and curled his fingers around Ian's. "I feel like such a huge fuck up, man. I could have prevented this, you know? I've just been used to smoking like a damn chimney since I was a little punk." He felt emotion rise in his chest. "I wanna be here for Yev as long as I can, man. And you, and Svet, even Mandy and my dumbass fucking brothers," his voice cracked and Ian tightened his grip on Mickey's hand.

"Stop talking like that, asshole. You're not— you're not _dying_ , okay? You're just sick, and you'll get treatment and beat the fuck out of this shitty disease, got it?" He rasped, his voice clearly straining.

"Ian," he breathed and blinked the moisture in his eyes away. "We can't just pretend everything's fine," his and Ian's palms were mutually sweating at this point, neither of them cared. "They found worse shit with the biopsy," he sighed and used the hand that wasn't in Ian's to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Sayin' it's stage two, whatever the fuck that means," he informed monotonously. Of course Ian would know what it meant, he was a fucking EMT and he knew that.

"It's—," Ian breathed, collecting himself. "Stage two?" He murmured, eyeing Mickey. "Okay, okay. Everything's fine, it's still treatable, alright?" He sounded like he was saying it more to himself rather than Mickey.

It was going to be a long fucking road.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little shorter than the first chapter but I wanted to have it up today. Non graphic vomiting in the beginning and mentions of it, as well as death throughout the chapter. Overall heavy subject matter, proceed with caution if you are easily triggered.

"This is the fucking _worst_ , man," Mickey's voice echoed from the toilet bowl. The first few rounds of chemo had been the most tolling. Ian being there helped a little, but the way his body ached from the inside out to the near constant vomiting had him almost at his wits end. He wanted to be home as much as possible between chemo sessions, but he was slowly starting to realize the _cancer ward_ may be calling his name sooner rather than later. He didn't want to go back, that place was too fucking dreary; it took the light right out of people.

"I'm sorry," Ian murmured and rubbed Mickey's back, squeezing the nape of his neck periodically. That was one thing Mickey had heard too much of in the past few weeks, _I'm sorry._ Like this was anyone's fault. Well— anyone's but his own.

He lurched forward again and heaved for a moment. There wasn't much he could keep down lately, so it was usually just bile. He leaned back, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "I think I'm good," he breathed and rested his temple on Ian's shoulder.

"You sure?" Ian pressed and massaged the knots in Mickey's lower back. He'd been a mother hen lately, and while Mickey would occasionally complain— it felt nice. Especially when he quite literally felt like he was dying half the time.

"For now, yeah," he murmured and gripped the ledge of the bathroom counter to hobble to a stance. He rinsed his mouth out, and promptly smooshed himself into Ian's front. He was _cuddly_ lately. It may have had to do with the whole cancer thing, or the possibility of becoming terminally ill; whatever the case, it made him a little needy. He knew Ian didn't mind, since he was usually the cuddler. Though, something entirely too horrifying began happening as of late. Small clumps of hair had recently been falling from Mickey's head.

The first time it happened, Mickey almost cried. He'd never been super attached to his hair, he styled it on occasion, brushed it regularly, maintained it. But when he saw the small section of hair fall into the sink a few days ago, it all became too real. Sure, hearing "cancer" from doctors had been a tough pill to swallow, but the physical effects of chemotherapy made it _real_.

He snapped out of his reverie, feeling Ian's hands circle around him, grounding him. "I love you," Ian murmured against Mickey's temple, gently leaving a kiss there.

"I'm sorry," Mickey murmured and let his arms circle Ian's waist.

"What for?" Ian's voice lacked venom, only held an imploring tone as he gently began to sway them in place.

"Don't pretend like this whole thing isn't my fault," Mickey murmured, his voice small and muffled in Ian's chest. He felt the other man stiffen, bracing his hands on either of Mickey's shoulders to gently pry him off. Mickey avoided his gaze, feeling incredibly small and _decrepit_.

"Look at me," Ian said firmly. When he didn't, he braced his index finger and thumb beneath Mickey's chin to raise his gaze. "Fault isn't a factor here. We're in this _together_ , got that? We love each other, it means.." Ian trailed off and nearly did a victory dance when he saw the corners of Mickey's lips quirk up.

"It means we take care of each other," his voice got lighter. "It means thick and thin, good times, bad—,"

"—Sickness, health,"

In unison, "all that shit."

Mickey was smiling now, looking up at Ian from under his eyelashes. "You're a massive fucking dork, you know that?" He teased and tightened his grip on Ian's hips.

"You love me, though," Ian grinned and placed a kiss on Mickey's clammy forehead. He grumped for a moment before yawning, patting Ian's hips.

"Yeah, I really do."

-

"Why can't daddy come with us to the zoo today?" Yevgeny implored Ian from where he sat beside him on the El. It was their weekend, after all, and Yev had his heart set on the zoo yet again. It was a public zoo that thrived off of donations, so they'd usually put a few pieces of pocket change in the donation buckets.

"He's really sick, and his medicine is making him tired," he explained gently and looked down at his son, one corner of his mouth quirking up when he saw he was fiddling with his Spider-Man action figure.

"I thought medicine was s'posed to make you get better," he said distractedly, eyes trained on the figurine.

"It'll happen, sometimes things just have to get worse before they get better," he explained best he could.

"Daddy never wants to play anymore," his hands stilled on his toy, looking up to meet his dad's eyes. "Is it 'cos he's sick?"

"Of course, Yevvy. He'd would play with you all day if he could, buddy, he's just really unwell, is all," he murmured and dropped a kiss on the lip of Yev's dirty blonde curls.

Their short lived conversation ended when the El came to a screeching stop where they needed to get off, seemingly distracting Yev from the previous subject matter.

"Hey, you want a snow cone?" Ian asked as the El zoomed away behind them. "I'll race you," Ian challenged and ran after a squealing Yevgeny who had since taken off.

-

Mickey found himself in a violent coughing fit that nearly ended in him passing out, and because he was the luckiest person in the entire world; it happened just as Ian returned from bringing Yevgeny home to Svetlana. He'd been sleeping there when it was their weekends, because Mickey was _proud_ and didn't like when his son saw him weak.

"Mick— Mickey are you okay?" Ian's voice sounded over the echoes of violent hacking. He braced himself over the sink and gasped desperately to fill his lungs before coughing viciously. The labored gasps had since made him lightheaded, his vision spotting around the edges. He felt hands gripping at his waist, soon realizing he'd been slowly falling, and Ian was catching him.

" _Mickey_ , breathe," it wasn't so much a command as it was a plea. "There you go, that's it," Ian sighed in relief when Mickey began to take in longer gulps of air and less fierce hacking.

He found his bearings, arms wobbling from where they struggled to support his weight despite Ian's persistent hold. His eyes peeked open, letting out a nearly sardonic chuckle at the sight. Blood, red splattered in stark contrast to the white porcelain of the sink. Ian must have noticed too, if the way his hold on Mickey told him anything.

"Mick," Ian's voice sounded distant, vague and distorted. "Mickey— we gotta get you to the hospital," he sounded clearer this time, like maybe the fog in Mickey's brain had cleared.

He shook off Ian's hands from where they gripped his elbows, the skin there now less warm than before. "It's just the chemo," he dismissed and turned on the faucet, watching the blood swirl down the drain in soft pink spirals.

"The fuck it is! Mick, we can't just ignore the fact you've started coughing up _blood_ , it could mean something bad, man," Ian pleaded with Mickey, resisting the urge to touch him since he'd clearly wanted space, if his body language indicated anything.

Mickey relented slightly, staring at the last of the blood being washed from the sink. He hated admitting Ian was right.

-

As they sat in the waiting room, Ian found himself wanting to wrap Mickey in a soft blanket and keep him safe forever. He looked sick, but he also looked _small_ and _fragile_. He wore one of Ian's hoodies and a pair of sweats that probably hadn't been washed in a while, along with a gray beanie to hide the several missing patches of hair. He sat with his head leaning back against the wall, bluish grey bags under his eyes contrasting the sickly color of his skin.

Mickey didn't see so much as he felt Ian staring at him. "You've always had a problem with gawking," he groused with little bite.

Ian didn't even have enough shame to flush, "worried 'bout you, is all," he amended and placed his palm on Mickey's knee.

The moment of intimacy came to an abrupt halt when an overworked looking nurse appeared, "Milkovich," she called out into the room of mutually unamused people. Ian perked up while Mickey didn't do anything to stifle his look of disinterest.

"Right this way, boys," she sounded like she was trying to sound amused, but she was failing. They followed her into the painfully bland examination room, going through the motions of small talk and vital taking. "The Doctor will be with you shortly," she said to neither of them as she left.

And she was right, because not five minutes later; Doctor Steinfeld appeared, looking tired but awake enough to fake interest if need be. He greeted quickly and cut to the point, "we need to do a CT and a PET scan, preferably now," he said with only slight urgency. "Blood in mucus can mean the spread of cancer at a faster rate than we'd been expecting, and the CT scan can help us see what's going on in your lungs while the PET scan can help us see if or where it has spread," Ian visibly tensed while Mickey seemed numb. "My team can prep you for your scans and perhaps surgery if a new tumor had emerged or the current cancerous vessel grew," he addressed Mickey but seemed unperturbed by his indifference. "We need to act quickly, I'll send in Marie," he decided on Mickey's behalf, leaving with a nod to Ian.

"Mick," Ian murmured and grappled for his hand, clinging to the clammy skin. "You— did you hear him?" He asked carefully.

"You seem to forget that my lungs are the things in question here, my ears work just fine," his voice maintained a monotonous rhythm.

"You just seem.." he trailed off as words seemed to escape in.

"Ian, I've done enough research on my own to see where this was going, and it ain't pretty," he met Ian's gaze. "So excuse my lack of enthusiasm," he wasn't being witty, he sounded _serious_.

"I just wanna be there for you," he said lamely. He didn't know what else to say. He'd never had a way with words, neither of them did.

Mickey softened, "You do more than you know," he murmured. Ian was going to respond with the sound of knuckles rattled against the heavy wooden door.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," Marie said apologetically with a sheepish look. "If you follow me, we can get your scans over with as soon as possible," she sounded like she was trying to be bright. Ian appreciated the effort, but it was a lost cause.

"I'll be there when you get out," Ian murmured and left a lingering touch on Mickey's hand after he stood.

-

"Stage four," Mickey looked at Doctor Steinfeld like he'd been speaking in tongues. "How is that— how is that even _possible?"_ His voice was getting steadily louder, veins in his temples bulging with exertion. He vaguely felt Ian place a hand in his knee. "And you're telling me it's _spread,_ " he looked at his doctor incredulously.

"Lung cancer is extremely unpredictable, even with treatment—," Doctor Steinfeld was cut off yet again.

"So you're telling me I've been puking my guts out, losing hair, missing out on my son growing up for, what? For it to not work? Just get get my fill of the side effects?" He felt tears sting his eyes, but his anger wasn't wavering.

"It's not a death sentence," the doctor stressed with a sympathetic tone. "There are still various options. For example, we could still proceed with intensive chemotherapy," he said carefully before proceeding again. "Surgery can become an option when the tumors shrink," he looked up to see Mickey's face, tensed and reddened at the cheeks. "The results of your scans had shown proof of the tumors enlarging, making surgery a risk until they've shrunk a few centimeters," he explained.

Mickey rubbed the tip of his nose with his knuckle. "So, now what? I become even more sickly and crippled?" He scoffed and shook his head.

"The side effects will become worse with the more intense radiation, yes," the doctor proceeded carefully. "But as your oncologist, I urge and recommend it as the best option and that we start it relatively soon."

"How soon?" Ian's voice was rough, gritty and strained with emotion.

He didn't hesitate, "tomorrow, if possible."

"He'll be there," Ian promised and shared a mutual nod and a handshake with Doctor Steinfeld.

"You two can have the room for a moment, if you need to. Take your time," and with that, he left.

"You're doing it, understand me?" Ian's voice filled the room as soon as the door clicked shut. "I know it sucks, and I know you're scared, but you're doing whatever he says, got it?" His voice became more warbled with the tears that clouded his voice. "I can't— I _won't_ lose you to this, especially not to your stubbornness and pride," Ian sniffled and stood, wiping under his eyes with the back of his hand before extending it to Mickey.

He wordlessly stood and brushed past Ian, ignoring him coldly. _Fuck Ian_ if he thought he could tell him what to do. Fuck Doctor Steinfeld for giving him false hope, and _fuck_ cancer. Fuck everything, honestly

-

They sat wordlessly beside one another on the El, though Mickey didn't shy away when Ian pressed their thighs together. Ian took it as a silent apology for his brash actions earlier, but he could hardly blame him.

The walk from the El stop to the Milkovich house consisted of three periodical stops for Mickey to catch his breath, waving Ian off if he tried to help him.

"You good?" He asked carefully, watching him wheeze when they got to the top step of the stoop. Of course Mickey wasn't _good_ , but what else was there to say?

"Peachy," he wheezed and hobbled inside.

"I'll get you up tomorrow for your appointment," he said to no one in particular while Mickey ultimately isolated himself in their bedroom.

-

 

_One month later._

 

"How you holdin' up?" Fiona asked Ian as he barreled in the door of the Gallagher house, into his sisters arms. "I'll take that as, 'not so well,'" she soothed and rubbed his back. "You wanna come in for dinner? Stay a while?" She asked when he pulled away, concern for her brother written all across her face.

"I, um," Ian cleared his throat and gave a small shrug. "I can stay, for a little bit," he forced a smile.

"Good," he murmured and closed the door while Ian strode in, greeted by Liam, Debbie, Carl, and Lip barreling towards him with a group hug. Even Fiona piled on.

"Guys," Ian laughed wetly and put no effort into prying off his siblings.

"Let's eat," Liam's voice came muffled from somewhere under Carl, who hummed in agreement.

They ate in the normal Gallagher chaos, which was so comforting Ian could cry. Fiona waited until most everyone went to sleep until she plopped herself down on the couch beside Ian. "How's he doing?"

Ian ran his fingers through his hair, taking a few healthy gulps from his beer. "He's.. he's not good, Fi," he murmured and trained his eyes on the carpet near his feet.

"No?" She proceeded carefully, moving closer to him and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "You wanna talk about it? Stay the night?"

"I— uh, can't stay the night. He has another chemo session in the morning and I like to be there for him," he said apologetically. Fiona only nodded. He'd known he'd become rather distant from his family since Mickey's diagnoses, but who could blame him?

"We're all here for you, yanno," she said seriously and pressed a loving kiss to his temple.

"I know."

"Be safe, kiddo," Fiona murmured before seeing him out.

-

The cancer ward was back with a vengeance, apparently, Mickey thought bitterly. He was bound her for an _indeterminate amount of time,_ they'd said. He'd taken it as "you'll die here, but at least we have ping pong!"

The ward would have been a damn cake walk if it weren't for the chemo. That shit did _not_ agree with Mickey at all. He'd lost so much of his hair he'd taken to just sleeping with a damn beanie on, vomited so much he barely ate, and became so sickly looking his own son couldn't look him in the eye.

Then there was Ian, too. Who he couldn't have done it without, any of this. He wanted it known, maybe even written on his grave, that Ian Gallagher was his rock.

"Hey, hot stuff," Ian greeted with a lazy grin, freckled knuckles rapping on the doorframe. "Miss me?"

"You know I do," Mickey replied lamely and returned his grin with a tired smile.

"You doing alright?" Ian asked as he perched himself on Mickey's bed. He'd taken to asking stupid questions lately, but Mickey decided to humor him.

"Y'know, just living the _life,_ " he deadpanned and grinned at Ian's eye roll.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Mickey spoke up. "Latest PET scan showed it spread more into my ribs and hips, but good news is my lymph nodes and lungs have stayed the same, cancer wise," he informed Ian, who only gave a tight nod.

"It's been spreading, and the chemo is only doing so much.. and surgery would probably kill me—," he was cut off by Ian's tight lipped response.

"What are you saying?"

"They're giving me time frames, Ian," he said softly and carefully went to grab Ian's hand. "I don't— I don't know if I can continue treatment. It's not working, and I want to spend my last days present and not in some cancer ward, sick out of my mind—," he was cut off again, Ian's voice louder.

"Don't— don't fucking talk like that," he hissed and stood up, tears leaving shiny trails down his ruddy cheeks. "Your _final days_ aren't any time soon, okay? You're staying here, where you can get help—," he stopped for a moment to breathe.

"Marry me."

Ian's heavy panting seemed to startle, "what did you just say?"

"I said, marry me," Mickey repeated and grabbed Ian's fingers. "I don't have a ring, and I sure as shit don't have a life to spend with you," he said wetly and caressed Ian's face when he sat beside him on the bed. "But I want to give you all I've got left, Gallagher," he murmured and swiped some wetness away from under Ian's eyes with his thumb. "I want to die being your husband."

The sincerity in the statement had them both staggering, sobbing into each other's mouths in an incredibly uncoordinated kiss.

"Yes," Ian breathed against Mickey's wet mouth.

"Yes?" Mickey questioned, pulling away to look into Ian's eyes.

"Yes, I'll marry you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! As always feedback is greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have any specific triggers in this chapter I need to warn about besides mentions of death. Thanks for bearing with me through scattered updates. Enjoy.

* * *

Vows. It was time for vows. Right.

Ian took a deep breathe and grabbed Mickey's hands in his own. He could do this.

"Mickey," Ian cursed his voice for already being unsteady and wet with tears, but determined nonetheless.

"I don't know where to even begin. You're.. everything I never knew I needed. I've never been more wholeheartedly devoted or in love with someone. There's— there's so many things you do that make me fall in love with you more everyday.. it terrifies me sometimes. You've seen me at my lowest, held me while I've cried, saw me through the bad all the way into the good, absolutely _selflessly_ ," Ian paused to collect himself.

"I promise to see you through the bad, too, the same way you've done for me so many times," he looked heavenward to not completely devolve into hysterics. "I promise to hold you when you cry, to laugh with you when you're happy, to _be_ the man you need me to be. I promise with my whole heart, that I will love you forever and then some." He looked to his family and saw that every one of his siblings had tears in their eyes.

"I know there's nothing I could ever do to come close to what you've done for me, for our family," he looked over at an already crying Svetlana and a teary Yevgeny at her side. "You're the strongest, most courageous, stubborn son of a bitch I know, and I'm _so_ lucky to call you my husband," he finished, palms clammy against Mickey's.

He finally looked at Mickey again, and it was a sight to behold. His cheeks were wet with tears though a smile that nearly cut his face in half donned his lips.

"How the fuck am I supposed to top that?" Mickey murmured, loud enough to get a chorus of wet chuckles from the small audience.

"Ian," Mickey began, and Ian was already on the verge of sobbing hysterically.

"We've been through.. a lot. Together, and it's always been _us_ , together. I may not be what you pictured yourself with when you were younger, but damn am I happy I got lucky enough to be yours. I sure as shit don't have a life to spend with you, or much of anything to give you at all," Mickey's eyes were brimming with tears again.

"Despite that.. I promise to still be your shoulder to cry on. I promise to be your rock when it feels like there's nothing else solid around you. I promise to be the man that _you_ need _me_ to be, until the very end," he paused momentarily when Ian bit his lips, crying gently.

"Even though _'the end'_ doesn't seem that far off.. I promise you, that until the day I die; I am yours. I love you to the moon and back, Ian," he finished. If there was anyone left not crying, they sure as shit were after that.

"Beautiful, gentleman," the officiant cleared his throat, some tears having slipped down his cheeks as well. "Now, do you take Ian as your lawfully wedded husband?"

Mickey only beamed at Ian, "I do."

"And do you, Ian, take Mickey as your—,"

"Yes! Yes, I do," he said almost too eagerly, smiling at his, soon to be, _husband_.

The man shook his head with a smile on his lips, "well, by the power vested in the state of Illinois, I pronounce you wedded spouses," he chuckled at the eager look he got from Ian. "You may kiss your husband," he said finally and heard the small rise of claps around the tiny church.

It was a small affair, the only guests Ian and Mickey's siblings, Svetlana, Vee, Kevin, and Yevgeny too; but it was enough. It was _more_ than enough. Mickey's health had been on a steady decline, so an actual ceremony needed to happen sooner rather than later.

Despite his deteriorating health, Ian didn't think Mickey could look more _stunning_. He wore a not so fitted suit that looked like it had been passed through the Milkovich brothers more than a few times, and still his beanie to hide his head. He also had his portable oxygen with him, the tubing discreetly secured around his face.

Their lips connected in a sweet kiss, one that Ian or Mickey couldn't ever forget. Their cheeks were slick with tears, lips bitten from nerves, Mickey's oxygen tubing only getting in the way a little bit. It was everything and then some.

-

"We're _married_ ," Ian said for the hundredth time, probably, Mickey wasn't really counting. Despite the fact he quite literally felt like he was dying, he hadn't ever felt more alive.

"Kinda figured, after the whole, yanno, wedding thing," Mickey grinned and chuckled at Ian's eye roll. There wasn't much to do for a honeymoon, it was advised by Mickey's doctors that he stay at home in case of any emergency. It wasn't like Mickey had wanted to go anywhere, anyways. He could feel himself deteriorating, and it was he most helpless he'd felt since Ian first got diagnosed with bipolar.

"How you feeling?" Ian asked after a moment, noticing how Mickey's end of the conversation kind of petered off into soft looks.

"Tired," he replied softly. "Real tired, but," he reached for Ian's hand. "I'm happy."

Ian's forehead had a permanent little crease between his eyebrows from how much he furrowed them in concern or worry; an often occurrence lately. The little wrinkle always made Mickey smile despite him being the one who essentially put it there.

"I love the fuck out of you, you know?" Mickey said randomly, the crease between Ian's brows smoothing out for a moment.

"I love the fuck out of you too," he replied easily, settling in beside him on the bed.

The nice thing about stopping treatment was he was able to come home. Their apartment wasn't much, but it's _home_ and that's all he needed. It was much more comfortable than being in hospice. They still had Marie, a woman Ian and Mickey had actually become quite fond of, come by everyday to replenish Mickey's oxygen tank and take his vitals.

Svetlana always came over with Yevgeny, much welcomed company. Yev had slowly become more comfortable around Mickey again, having yet to be given the official _talk_ about what exactly was going to happen. Neither Ian or Svetlana knew how to go about that. They figured they could wait it out a few weeks longer. It was a daunting task.

"You need anything?" Ian interrupted Mickey's thoughts, a hand on his cheek reminding him of his presence.

"Yeah, c'mere," Mickey patted the bed beside him, arms open.

Ian climbed in beside him, letting Mickey rest his head on his chest while he settled into their bed.

"I want a closed casket," Mickey murmured after a few minutes. "Use that picture from Yev's birthday, the one of all of us, I don't have any headshots or nothin'."

Ian gulped and hugged Mickey closer, "stop," he whispered. "Can we— can we talk about this tomorrow or something? Let's just be happy for a minute," he pleaded gently, watching Mickey trace mindless patters with his index finger on his abs.

"Yeah," Mickey finally breathed and cuddled closer to Ian. "I'm sorry, I just— I feel like it's soon, you know? The whole.." he trailed off for a moment. "Dying thing," he shrugged and felt Ian's hand stroke his bicep. "Not saying I have a sixth sense or whatever, just," he trailed off again. "It's soon," he finished quietly.

Ian hated admitting to himself that, yeah, he could feel it too.

-

"Yevgeny says he misses his daddies," Svetlana's voice is tinny and far off from where it sounded through Ian's phone. "He wants to see you both, I don't know how to tell him no any longer," she sighed.

"I can take the El and bring him out for some food?" Ian suggested while absently peaking in at Mickey's sleeping form on their couch.

"Ian," Svetlana sighed, and Ian knew what was coming. "He wants to see Mikhailo as well, you know this."

He only sat at their kitchen table and nodded to himself mournfully. "I know," he parroted quietly.

"I'll bring him here, he can stay the night if he wants. But— it's getting bad, Svet," he murmured before clearing his throat.

"I'll be awake if he wants to come home, see you soon," she farewelled before hanging up.

-

"Dad!" Yevgeny shouted when he saw Ian walk through the door of the Fisher household. Svetlana looked to be watching the children while Ian assumed Kev and Vee were at the Alibi.

Ian ruffled a hand though his son's hair, "hey, little guy," he said and jerked his chin in the direction of the stairs. "Grab your stuff and we can head out, okay?"

Yevgeny nodded and bounded off towards his bedroom while Ian made his way over to Svetlana, who was putting saran wrap over a casserole dish. Ian smiled knowingly, "thanks."

Svetlana half smiled, "you have more important things to do than cook," she stated and put the dish in two plastic bags. After a few silent moments passed, Svetlana put a hand on Ian's shoulder. "I warn Yev about Mikhailo," she said softly. "I tell him he is very sick, that he is tired," she paused and brushed her palm over Ian's cheek. "He says he understands, but keep your eye on him," she concluded and handed Ian the casserole. "Is Yev's favorite," she shrugged while Yevgeny clomped down the stairs.

"Ready," Yevgeny announced to his dad.

-

Mickey loved his son. Loved him more than anything. However, the last thing he wanted to do was see him. Not so much that being he didn't _want_ to, but because he knew that when Yev saw him he'd be sad.

His energy had been steadily depleting as of late, for obvious reasons, and he _hated_ the look on Yevgeny's face when he would be denied a game of catch or help with his homework, menial shit that dads were supposed to be able to do.

He heard the door rattle and squeak open from his place on the couch, he sat up when he heard the murmuring of his husband and son filling the otherwise quiet apartment.

As soon as Yev saw him, his eyes were alight. "Daddy!" He yelled, scrambling to the couch and carefully giving him a hug.

"Hey, kiddo," Mickey murmured, watching Ian as he set Yev's bag in his room.

"I missed you," came Yevgeny's voice from under Mickey's armpit, muffled and distorted.

He chuckled lightly and shifted so he could kiss he top of Yev's head. "I missed you more," he grinned at the competitive way his eyebrows rose.

"Nuh uh," Yevgeny challenged. "I missed you _most_."

Mickey narrowed his eyes, "I missed you most _est_."

Yev's jaw dropped indignantly before proceeding with, "I missed you to infinity! Can't top that!" He giggled when Mickey faked shock, before devolving into laughter that ended up making him cough roughly.

Yevgeny backed up when Mickey's hacking persisted for a moment, but decided to pat his back firmly. "It's okay," he whispered.

Mickey felt awful, having his _son_ taking care of _him_. It didn't feel right, but it was a welcomed feeling to have his child beside him. He eventually calmed down, adjusting the oxygen tubing around his face. "Thanks, kid."

Yevgeny half smiled, "me and dad are gonna go play catch later, if you want to come outside and watch," he suggested sheepishly. He was a smart boy, he knew that Mickey was too sick to play; but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't watch.

"I'd love that, buddy," he said with a ruffle to his messy curls. "Lets go while it's still light out, 'kay?"

Yevgeny's eyes widened, "okay!" He bounded towards his father's room and dragged Ian out by his sleeve, " _c'moooon_!"

-

Admittedly, it was a beautiful day. It was seventy five degrees, no humidity and a nice breeze. It felt good to let the setting sun warm his skin after being cooped up for so long. The fresh air felt good too, even if it wasn't all he was breathing. He watched Ian and their son play, a sight to behold.

Yev had a pretty good arm for a seven year old, and Mickey liked to think it was because of his Milkovich genes; even if he only played little league for a few months when he was a kid.

"Did'jya see that, daddy?" Yevgeny yelled to Mickey where he sat in the distance, partially in the shade. He'd caught Ian's throw for the tenth time in a row.

"Hell yeah, kid. Good job," he gave a small series of claps, which resulted in Yevgeny grinning broadly.

He watched them for a while, feeling something heavy settle in his chest. It wasn't his lungs, for once, it was different. He felt sad. So painfully sad, watching his husband and their child run about and do stuff that seemed to menial in the grand scheme of things.

He felt tears sting at his eyes when he realized he wouldn't be around to see these things for much longer. He slowly realized he wouldn't live to see Yev grow up. Wouldn't see him go through his awkward stage, or learn to drive, and hell, maybe be the first Milkovich to graduate high school. He wouldn't be able to see his son meet someone special, maybe get married and have a few kids of his own. He'd miss out on all the milestones with his husband, too. He'd miss out on being a _grandfather_ with Ian. He wouldn't be able to grow old with him, wouldn't be able to tease him about his first gray hairs or wrinkles, wouldn't be able to stare at the man he loves age with grace.

It hit him all at once, the inconsolable sadness that wrapped around him like a blanket.

He was going to die soon, and all he could do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Thank you for sticking around. TW: death, funeral scene.

Ian never really allowed himself to let it sink in that Mickey was going to die. Well— of course he was going to die, it was just a matter of the clock ticking sooner than he'd hoped.

There were too many things they hadn't been able to do. Ian always wanted to have more kids. Yevgeny always seemed to enjoy Amy and Gemma, and in the past he'd joked with Mandy he'd want her to be he and Mickey's surrogate; only half serious. Of course, it was improbable now.

As Mickey's illness progressed and worsened, they inevitably had to move him to hospice. It was shitty, seeing Mickey live out his last days in a hospital bed. Although, he didn’t think he would ever be able to ever set foot in their apartment again if Mickey died there.

They didn’t let the room get dreary, quite the contrary. There were supermarket flowers on the windowsill with several get well cards from family and photos drawn by Yevgeny.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon in the summertime. Yevgeny had finished kindergarten nearly a week before, never shutting up about how excited he was to start elementary school with all of his friends. Ian’s heart broke when the realization that Mickey wouldn't seen Yevgeny through school dawned on him.

The air outside was hot and sticky, a humidity that had Ian's hair curling at the ends. However the air inside the spacious hospital room left an uncomfortable chill under his skin as he watched Mickey's chest rise and fall slowly, so slowly, sleeping uncomfortably.

He'd worried his lip to the point of bleeding, both of his hands caressing one of Mickey's. His eyes fluttered open in a painfully pitiful way, his eyes sunken in and just sad.

"Hey," Ian whispered, wiping some of Mickey's hair from his eyes.

"Ian," Mickey croaked, his eyebrows furrowing in discomfort. He huffed in frustration, the oxygen mask over his mouth muffling his words.

"Do you want me to get someone?" Ian asked, almost frantically, petting Mickey's temple with one hand while holding the other.

"No, just.." Mickey frowned and lifted his gaze to Ian, his voice gravelly as he struggled for breath. "Stay with me," he whispered and gave a light squeeze to Ian's hand.

"Mickey," Ian breathed, his eyes wet with tears that seemed unable to spill over.

The strength steadily depleted from Mickey, his eyes falling shut while the steady beeping of the heart monitor got slower.

"Mickey, please," Ian begged, unsure of what he was asking as he grabbed one of Mickey's hand with both of his, pressing his mouth to the back of it as he let the pent up tears bubble over. "I love you so much..“ he said on an exhale, a slow chill radiating through his bones while the slow beep turned into a single, long sound.

Ian wasn’t sure how to react in this moment. He’d always imaged death like an explosion. A mass amount of buildup followed by an eruption of activity. It wasn’t like that at all. It happened in an instant, and it was done. One moment Mickey was breathing, the next he wasn’t. Just like that. He let out a single sob, pressing Mickey’s hand to his forehead.

Marie walked in with a somber face. She calmly turned off the monitor, her eyes looking a little wet.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Gallagher," she murmured and made her way out of the room. "Take all the time you need," she murmured and shut the door behind her.

Ian scooted closer to his husband, who's chest no longer rose and fell. He looked pale, small, dead. Most of all, though, he looked at peace. It was a strange sense of relief that washed over Ian as he pet Mickey's hair then gently caressed his face with both hands. His features looked softer, less tense.

Ian's face crumpled, finally giving in, only slightly, to the overwhelming sense of grief. His hands clenched Mickey's shirt like a vice in an attempt to ground himself. He pressed his cheek against his husbands arm, gazing up at him through wet and cloudy eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized for no reason. He just.. felt sorry. He opened Mickey’s palm and molded it around his wet cheek to feel his husband’s caress one final time.

After placing Mickey’s arm back at his side, he stood and wiped his face with his hands. He exhaled loudly and grabbed his “#1 Dad” mug full of old coffee to pour down the sink. He folded the get well cards in a pile next to the framed photo of himself, Mickey, Mandy, Svetlana and Yev at his last birthday party, the one he wanted displayed at his funeral. Finally, he walked to the window and grabbed the wilting flowers. In a sudden surge of anger, he tossed them across the room and let out an angry muffled sound. The petals seemed to mock him from where they scattered. He pulled his hair and put a hand over his mouth when he took another look at Mickey’s body.

After an undistinguishable amount of time, he grabbed his phone. He felt like his fingers were moving in slow motion, scrolling through his contacts until he pressed on Svetlana's name. It was odd, standing in a room with Mickey’s body. It sent a chill down his spine. It wasn’t Mickey. Sure, it was the body he’d come to know and love since he was 15, but everything that made Mickey himself was gone.

"Ian?" She answered, sounding scared.

He breathed for a moment, closing his eyes, "he's, um,” he breathed, eyes landing on Mickey’s face, a small smile on his lips when he realized Mickey wasn’t in pain anymore. “He’s gone, Svet.”

Ian heard her take a sharp inhale from the other end, a muffled string of distraught Russian. It took her a moment to collect herself, clearing her throat before she spoke, "Yevgeny is playing outside with the girls," she said softly. "What do I tell him, Ian?" She asked helplessly.

Ian had unfortunately known this was coming, telling Yevgeny. His son wasn't stupid, quite the contrary. He was smart, he knew Mickey was sick and it was painful to see how much he picked up on it.

“We need to tell him together,” Ian stood, unable to sit still anymore. He was starting to feel restless, like he was manic but not quite.

“I agree,” she cleared her throat. She murmured something in Russian and spoke up again, voice still watery but not as if she was crying. “See you soon,” she added before the line went dead.

-

The train ride was boring, Ian noticed. He felt himself start to depersonalize, like he was looking from the outside in. He faded in and out, watching other citizens go about their day without a care.

Before he realized, his autopilot had him knocking on the Ball/Fisher household door. Within a moment Svetlana opened it, her eyes looked wet, but no tears on her cheeks.

Ian’s eyes were wet, but he knew it would be futile to wipe them.

It didn’t even feel real. Mickey was gone. Dead. He’d never kiss him or hold him ever again and it was so unfair.

Yevgeny trotted inside when his mother called his name from the back door, his hair slightly sweaty and wind whipped. “Dad!” He smiled and pounced on Ian, who’s arms immediately encased his son, pressing his face into Yevgeny’s shoulder.

He carefully wriggled out of Ian’s grip, still sitting on his lap. “You’re sad,” he pouted, noticing his father’s blotchy cheeks and tear filled eyes. “Momma’s sad too,” he frowned, a slow look of dread creeping up his features.

“Yevvy,” Svetlana breathed, sitting next to Ian and her son on the sofa. Kev and Vee stayed outside with their daughters.

“Can we go see Daddy?” He asked in a rush, his eyes widening a little with anxiety. He was far from naive and he could sense the mood of the room.

“Yev,” Ian cleared his throat and blinked, thick tears falling onto his lap. “You remember how daddy was very sick?” Yevgeny nodded hesitantly, and Ian felt Svetlana’s hand gently begin to rub Yev’s back while she placed the other on his knee.

“Uh huh,” he nodded, eyes shifting between his mom and dad. “Is he better?” He asked reluctantly. He was anything but stupid, but his tone was hopeful and Ian’s heart began to crack.

“No, baby,” Svetlana murmured and didn’t bother hiding her tears. “Sometimes.. people do not get better when they are sick,” she cleared her throat and smiled sadly, pushing her sons hair out of his face.

“Is daddy okay?” Yev’s eyes were wet now, his lower lip slowly beginning to shake.

“Yev.. daddy.. he—,” Ian looked upwards for a moment before back at his son. “He died, sweetheart.”

“Nuh uh!” Yevgeny shouted, jumping to his feet, tears streaking his cheeks. “You’re lyin’, daddy’s not dead!” He hiccuped and ran towards the front door but was caught in Svetlana’s arms.

“Zhenya,” Svetlana said into her sons hair, holding the little boy who tried wriggling and fighting free before going limp and giving in to his mother's embrace. His tiny sobs broke Ian’s heart. He saw Svetlana finally shed a tear.

-

After Yevgeny fell into a fitful nap after crying so much, he kissed Svetlana’s cheek and gave her a warm embrace before trudging over to the Gallagher house. He needed Fiona. Fuck, he needed to see her before his head fucking exploded.

He didn’t bother knocking, it made no sense. He made his way into the place he called home for the majority of his life. Fiona was at the table, squinting at what looked like bills or paperwork through her reader glasses.

She turned her head and smiled when she saw her little brother. Ian’s face crumpled like silk and sank to his knees.

“Ian,” she breathed and scrambled to him, plopping next to her brother and casing him in her arms from where they sat on the floor. The floodgates opened.

“Oh, Ian.. sweetface,” she exhaled shakily and rested her chin atop his head.

“He’s dead, Fiona,” he coughed and held her tightly. “Fucking gone,” he sobbed into her chest, hyperventilating.

“Ian,” she choked, holding him close and rocking him slightly. “Take a deep breath, baby.. you needa breathe,” she soothed and held him close.

He stabilized his breathing slightly, though the tears never stopped. “It’s not fair.. it’s so fucking unfair.”

“I know, I know,” she shushed. She was crying now too, thick tears falling past her cheeks.

“We have a kid, Fi. We have a family. We were supposed to fucking grow old together.” The last sentence set him off again, his sobs wracking his body.

“Ian, sweetie, you needa calm down a little.. you’ll pass out. Breathe, darlin’,” she murmured into his hair.

He took a series of hiccuping breathes, still clutching Fiona. After some time, he was able to stop sobbing, only occasional tears slipping. “Where’s everyone?” He finally croaked.

“Workin’,” Fiona carded her fingers through his hair gently, like she did when he was little and he didn’t feel well. “My day off,” she explained. “Lip should be back in an hour or so, Debbie n’ Carl too,” she murmured. “Liam’s stayin’ on campus for the weekend, but I’ll call him.”

Ian nodded, arms limply wrapped around Fiona’s waist. “Why don’t you get some sleep, hm? Beds made upstairs. I’ll wake you when dinners ready.” Her voice was so motherly that tears pricked Ian’s eyes again.

-

Funeral arrangements were a fucking drag. Not only did it make Ian want to crawl into a hole and never come out, the funeral people were too damn sorry. They spoke softly to him and Svetlana, like they were made of porcelain. He wanted to deck them in the face.

“So we’ve decided on a closed casket, then?” The curator asked gently, a pen and pad in her lap.

Ian emerged from his stupor and nodded. “Uh, yeah. Said he wanted that, so..” he cleared his throat and glanced over at Svetlana where she sat beside him.

She sat tight lipped, legs crossed and somehow, still a picture of elegance. Her hair was tied up neatly in a slick bun, shoulders back. She even had a little makeup on. She was phenomenal, and he didn’t quite know how else to put that into words or give her enough credit for it.

“It will be small affair. Mikhailo was not for extravagance,” she spoke up, placing a palm on Ian’s knee.

After the rest of the arrangements had been finalized, Ian looked out the window. The rain against the glass seemed fitting.

-

Svetlana was nothing if not resourceful. Her whole life had comprised of losses and hardship, painful trauma and having no choice but to stick it out and be brave. The past few years, though, were bliss. It didn’t come without hiccups and bumps in the road, but things were good. She’d fallen in love with Kevin and Veronica and their two daughters, she and Ian had made amends. They all had relatively stable work and and they were happy.

After Yevgeny and the girls had gone to bed, she sat in the living room of her home and lit up a cigarette. She felt a pang of guilt, but figured she deserved one after the day she’d had. She rarely smoked anymore, anyway. She didn’t startle when Veronica came up from behind her to wrap her in a loose hug around her upper body. With an exhale she ashed the stick, patting Veronica’s arms. “Is hard to believe he is gone. Does not feel real,” she wiped a hand over her face. Vee moved to sit beside her and pull her gently into her embrace again. “When I first had Yevgeny he was piece of shit father,” she murmured. Distant memories of threatening Mickey for money swam in the background of her mind. She didn’t regret it; she did what she had to do for her child. “I look back and then look at now,” she said, voice wet. “Is not fair,” she sighed and gripped Vee’s bicep.

“I know, baby,” she kissed her wife’s head. “When I first met him he was this dirty little punk hunting down Frank Gallagher,” she chuckled. She vaguely remembered Ian telling that story. “Next thing I know there’s a fight in my bar and he’s outta the closet,” she reminisced. Svetlana cracked a smile. She was overly bitter back then. It was natural, the father of her child wanted nothing to do with either of them. “Then.. well, the rest is a bunch of fucked up history that worked itself out and made everyone better for it.” She felt Vee smile.

“Never in my life did I think I’d mourn his death,” she stated after a moment. “But when I look into Yevgeny’s eyes and see his pain.. how much he misses Mikhailo, how much he looks like him..” she swore in Russian and sat up, Vee’s arms gently rubbing her shoulders. “He gave me my son, and now he is gone.. He even gave me orange boy.. Father when no one else was..” she exhaled shakily. Crying wasn’t something Svetlana did often, it was something she had in common with her ex husband. Vulnerability wasn’t their strong suit.

Veronica frowned, her own eyes cloudy. “He’s not in pain anymore, Lana. You gotta remember that,” she sniffled and kissed Svetlana’s shoulder.

“You are right,” she murmured. Kevin walked down from the upstairs and smiled warmly at the women.

“Bed feels weird without you two,” he jerked his head towards the upstairs. “Let’s get some rest.”

With that, Svetlana smiled and let herself be lead up to the bedroom she shared with her spouses.

-

Ian woke up in his cramped childhood bed with a stiff neck and the smell of breakfast wafting through the air. With the funeral tomorrow, he was a bit unsure how to feel. He couldn’t place where his head was at and it worried him slightly. Yevgeny was staying with Svetlana for the time being. He missed his son like no other, but whenever he looked at him all he saw was Mickey. The two looked so much alike it was uncanny. He’d never resent his son for that, but his heart was held in a vice grip whenever he looked at him.

He mosied downstairs in a pair of sweats and half smiled at Fiona who was putting a plate full of bacon on the table. “Mornin’,” she smiled and when he sat next to Lip. “Pancakes will be ready soon, and Liam should be here by tonight,” she murmured and kissed the top of his head. Lip reached over to squeeze Ian’s shoulder, they shared a look and a mutual sad smile.

He ate a little despite his lack of hunger, nibbling on a piece of bacon when the rest of his siblings eventually made their way downstairs. He found it funny that all they talked about growing up was getting out of the Southside, and yet; here they were. All the Gallaghers still lived in Canaryville, in the same house, even though Ian had moved in with Mickey a while ago and Debbie doing the same with her boyfriend.

Debbie gave him a backwards hug before plopping next to him.

“Where’s Franny?” Ian asked absently, poking his eggs with a fork.

“Home with Neil,” she said through a mouthful of pancakes and passed the bacon to Carl.

Breakfast was rather soothing, the normal noise of Gallagher chaos filling Ian with warm nostalgia. A knock at the door interrupted the cacophony of voices, to which Fiona trot over to answer. She smiled and let Svetlana in, who was holding a sleepy looking Yevgeny’s hand.

Ian’s face softened at the way Yev worried his lower lip in a way so similar to Mickey. He got up from his chair and hugged his son, who met him halfway by running into his arms. “Hey, buddy,” he said into his feathery dirty blonde hair.

“He says he misses dad,” Svetlana piped up. “Aunts and uncles too,” she gestured to the Gallaghers at the dining table.

“Why don’t we go get some grub, ‘kay? I’ll dish you up,” Fiona said an ruffled her nephews hair, nodding at Ian and Svetlana before retreating back to the dining room.

“You cannot avoid Yevgeny, not now,” Svetlana said without any malice. “He is hurting as much as you are, he needs you.”

“I know,” Ian sighed and glanced at his son nibble on his breakfast. “All I see is Mickey when I look at him,” he chuckled sadly.  
“We need to be strong, Ian,” she said sincerely. “To put selfishness aside for our Yev.” Her eyes were soft but her tone left no room for argument.

Ian looked from her back to the dining room, a sad smile stretching across his lips.

-

In about eight hours, Ian was going to bury his husband. He sat on the Gallagher couch sharing a cigarette with Svetlana.

“We probably shouldn’t be smoking,” Svetlana piped up quietly, taking another drag when the stick was passed to her.

Ian chuckled sardonically and shrugged, “now’s as good a time as any.”

She said nothing when it was passed back to him. The TV was on so low it might as well been on mute, and he could faintly hear sirens in the distance. He took a long pull and leaned his head back to exhale the plume of smoke. “How am I supposed to feel, what’s next?” He asked her softly, still faced towards the ceiling.

She raised an eyebrow and took a swig of beer, “sad?” She swallowed the alcohol audibly and eyed him. “Maybe angry,” she exhaled and grabbed the cigarette. “Life goes on, we move forward, raise Yevgeny,” she said through smoke.

“You make it sound so easy,” he chortled. After a long silence and a second cigarette, he laughed wetly. “I miss him so fucking much, Lana,” he murmured.

She leaned over and rested her head on Ian’s shoulder, lacing her fingers with his. “We need sleep,” she said with finality. “I go home, you go upstairs, and we take the rest one day at a time.”

Ian could only hope she was right.

-

The funeral home sent chills down Ian’s spine. It reminded him too much of when his mother died. That thought in it of itself caused a fresh wave of sadness to wash over Ian, remembering how Mickey had been there and helped him sort out his emotions. He didn’t have anyone like that anymore, not really. Not like Mickey.  
He could only be grateful that he had wanted a closed casket, because he was certain seeing Mickey’s body again would set him off. He felt as if he was in a trance, an onlooker. He sat with Yevgeny wedged between him and Svetlana in the first row, Kev and Vee next to Lana and Fiona and Lip sitting behind him. The rest of the room was filled with all the rest of Ian and Mickey’s siblings.

The director gently invited anyone who wanted to say a few words to step forward. He felt a gentle but firm hand, Fiona, squeeze his shoulder. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Yevgeny’s head before standing in front of the small crowd. He saw Mandy sat in the back, eyes so shiny they looked like glass, her mouth set in a hard line.

“I never saw myself standing here this soon, for this reason,” he looked at the room. His family. He took a deep breath. “Mickey was the love of my life, and I knew that as soon as he hucked fucking chip dip at me,” a sad chuckle reverberated through him and the group. “I was never good with words, but holy shit, Mickey was when he wanted to be. I’ve never met a more selfless person that him. I never will,” his chin wobbled and he swore to himself. “We loved a lot.. we fought a lot,” he looked at the closed casket. “And it hurts like hell,” he breathed. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

A small round of sniffles and cleared throats sounded through the room and Ian sat beside his son again. The rest of the funeral went by with a few words from Mickey’s brothers and Svetlana, Lip even said some things too.

He stood and followed Iggy, Colin, Jaime, and Joey carry their brothers casket from the home to the hearse. The rest went by in a blur. Ian watched the casket descend slowly, 6 feet under, while his son clutched his hand and cried. Just like that, with a soft thud, it was over.

-

Mickey’s family only thought it’d be fitting to celebrate his life by pouring one out for him at the Alibi. It went off without a hitch, most of them were off their asses not 20 minutes into it. Ian only opted for two beers and a shared soda with his son.

Fiona came and plopped down next to him in a booth with rum in hand, of which she slipped a tiny pour into his coke. “Doin’ okay?”

“Oddly enough,” Ian sighed and looked around. It was dusk outside, a cool seventy degrees. Mickey’s favorite. He saw their collective family and a few regulars milling about and drinking. “Yeah. I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I plan on (maybe) adding parts to make this a little series by adding past/future events in short one shot form. (Requests open for that.) Again, thank you.


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